Walking on Empty

I wake up famished. Full disclosure: I didn’t have dinner last night because to do so would have meant walking seven more miles round trip on top of yesterday’s fifteen. I guess I could call family and friends to the rescue, but that would be a little embarrassing. During the night I think I hear Oxfam dropping boxes of provisions by helicopter. This would certainly put Ralph’s King Size Motel (former name) on the map. I say to myself that fasting can help cleanse the body and bring about higher consciousness. So I decide to fast instead, as if I have a choice.

What I do not know is that today’s route is the “O’Cebreiro” (of Camino de Santiago fame) of this Camino de Nathaniel. The vertical climb is reminiscent of last May’s hardest day for me when I struggled uphill thinking I was too old (actually I was sick that day). Isolated today in rural New Jersey with no grocery stores, restaurants, or cafes in sight, I continue to climb up and up and up.

The higher consciousness thing is not happening. Instead I see mirages of Judy’s and Colette’s picnics around each corner, only to have them evaporate as I get closer. Maybe a Dunkin Donuts will miraculously appear. It’s 10:00 a.m. and a policeman flies by on his motorcycle. I think he may stop and check my pulse just to say reassuringly, “He’s not dead yet!” But he doesn’t even slow down, so I must look OK at 50 mph. But what about at 3.5 mph? By chance, a jogger runs by, but she doesn’t look any better than I do.

I pass three farms advertising fresh eggs. I imagine asking, “Can I buy a dozen and return nine in exchange for having three scrambled?” Probably not. So this is what walking on empty feels like. As I enter Washington Township, my prayers are finally answered. There before me appears the Dunkin Donuts I prayed for. To break my seventeen-hour fast, it takes me almost an hour to down two huge bagel sandwiches with eggs and cheese, a banana, a yogurt and three cups of coffee with cream. The next few miles into Chester are a breeze as I kick into fourth gear. I guess from here on, it will be all downhill to Manhattan. Still food-deprived, I stop again an hour later and refuel at Marilyn’s Cafe in the Chester Mall, just in case, with a huge Greek Salad. I munch away happily without realizing I am keeping the staff waiting past their closing time. Dinner and evening with the Decots (Lou & Gary’s friends in Flanders) will definitely top off the tank. I can’t wait. (Total mileage to date: just over 200)

How do I tell Nathaniel’s Story?

As expected, I sleep soundly despite the somber decor, but in the very early AM, I’m eager to move on. At the reception desk of the Phillipsburg Inn (see yesterday’s blog), I’m greeted by two stern-looking women who wear an “I’ve-seen-the-likes-of-you” look. “Do you want a receipt?” they ask. “Yes, please.” “Room 114–Pat Nicholson from California?” they inquire? I hesitate to answer. Maybe I slept too soundly last night and a transgender event happened. I should have been more attentive. It’s clear they do not want to hear the Nathaniel Story. At Perkins next door, I question my ability to ever raise enough awareness about OCD/BDD given the recent failure. But I try again. This time waitress Lynn listens attentively and pays for my breakfast. How do I get a foot in the door of people’s attention so that their guard falls down and human connection happens? The first ten seconds of delivery and word choice obviously matter.

Then I remember where human kindness has already occurred on this pilgrimage. Jennifer, the pharmacist, who pays for my lunch in Media; the manager at Panera’s in Broomall who offers me a free mango smoothy; Janet in Hatfield who hands me a $10 bill. I’m warmly received at scheduled appointments, but what about elsewhere? Is it the tone of voice I use? The words I choose? My facial expression? Or is it just a matter of my trusting that human kindness abounds? What about the other innkeeper near Horsham who bluntly interrupts me and says,”I haven’t got time for your story.” “Can I still use your bathroom?” I sheepishly ask.

With no clarity on the matter, I move on. Today’s road through Greenwich, NJ is generously wide and pedestrian-friendly. I stop at a Dunkin Donuts eager to try my developing people-connection skills. “I’m walking for Nathaniel, who…” I’m cut off. “That’s nice. Have a good one.” A good what? cup of coffee? day? walk? life? “But…but…but!” Move on Asselin. Robert at Warren County Technical School lets me use the bathroom and listens to my Nathaniel Story. As we converse, he sings the praises of experiential education in this small community college, where students connect head, heart, and body. Maybe that’s it. If I tell Nathaniel’s Story with that in mind, and if my listeners do the same, then the story of OCD/BDD will spread.

Too tired to move on (after 15 miles), I arrive at Ralph’s King Size Motel. Definitely not what I expect. Here we go again. Name has changed and perhaps the original hospitality mission as well. Do I stay? I have no choice. The next hotel is 8 miles away. I decide to tell Nan’s Story, and without hesitation, the smile happens and the room rate drops a bit. I’ll get the knack of this by the time I arrive in Boston. (miles to date: 189.4)

(Check out the great sign along the route….and the not-so-great view of my room tonight! Door on the left. Where is a Hyatt when you need one? Can’t wait to stay with relatives and friends for the rest of the week!)

“It’s an abomination!” The Book of Leviticus

Yippee! I finally cross the Delaware into New Jersey, reminiscent of George Washington’s winter crossing except I’m walking and not in a boat and it’s May, not December. (What was he thinking? Bridges work way better.) But I am getting ahead of myself. Let’s back up a bit. Day 12 is a short jaunt from Bethlehem (near airport) to Bethlehem (downtown). The 5 miles in between fly by and are hardly eventful except for several garage sales I pass. I’m hardly in the market to acquire anything given weight restrictions. I crave the rest day, even if spent at the local laundromat. My freebie at the Bethlehem Hyatt Place is pure luxury. Nephew Andy and his woman friend, Lauren, make dining out a treat. I crave company and am tired of talking to myself. “O Little Town of Bethlehem” renews body, mind, and spirit.

On Sunday, I’m raring to go like a caged race horse at the Kentucky Derby. Andy joins me for the long haul to Easton (due east as the name suggests) via roads that require constant attention when sidewalk-less (which is often). Our triumphant entry into town becomes even more glorious as Judy, Pat, and Carrie walk in the opposite direction to greet us with smiles, hugs, and excellent provisions. We picnic conveniently in Riverside Park at the junction of the Delaware and Lehigh Rivers. Lunch is gobbled up effortlessly. Bellies full, we cross the Rubicon, I mean the Delaware. One state down, five to go!

And then comes the highly complicated car shuffle–a strategic placement of vehicles so that my walking companions can be with me now and still have wheels at the next destination. However, lodging in Phillipsburg is today’s biggest challenge. Pat says, “What could be more enticing than an Inn–The Phillipsburg Inn?” That would be a big no! As exotic as the word “Inn” may sound to you, picture instead a long deceased Howard Johnson motel from the 1950s with no structural improvement or changes except in name over the decades. Yes, The Phillipsburg Inn is a reincarnation of HJ with enough poor karma to work out for an eternity. I marvel at my flexibility to accept anything rather than walk any further. To mark the occasion, Carrie finds the appropriate verse straight from Leviticus from the Gideon’s Bible by the bedside. “It is an abomination!” I totally agree, but the 17-mile walk today will ensure a sound sleeping experience tonight anyway. Thank God! (miles to date: 175)

(Note the beautiful silk banner I received today, created by Kristin Wagner.)

Worried about being on time for my 10:00 appointment at Kids Peace, I hit the road early and purposefully. If The Birth Center is chapter 1 in the story of Nathaniel’s life, then Kids Peace is chapter 1 in the narrative of his illness. As I walk, I re-experience the sad day 14 years ago that brought us here. The uphill climb to the hospital accentuates the struggle, both past and present. Today, it feels as if Kids Peace is in a cloud forest given the change in elevation and the eerie mist that envelopes me. According to my GPS, I need to turn right here, but the road is chained closed and completely washed out. I guess it’s no longer in use. (Google Maps, please note.) However, going around the other way is not an option, so I bushwhack through the woods with various white tailed deer questioning my intentions. We definitely did not take this route in 1997. Disheveled on top and very drenched at the bottom, I pop up past the main security gate in front of the hospital — skip that formality. What is it that Nathaniel wants me to say today? The answer comes quickly. This 11-year old boy came to Kid Peace very, very scared, and so were we. I see him hugging Big, his teddy bear, that now safely resides in my pack, but how small Big felt that day. “Why am I having these intrusive thoughts? What’s happening to me, mom and dad? Why are you leaving me here?” I now know that Nathaniel lost his childhood that gray February day. Nothing was ever going to be the same, for him or for Carrie, Judy , or me. At a large table surrounded by the Executive Director, the Medical Director, the Director of Client Services, and the Director of PR and Communications, I do what I came here to do — tell Nathaniel’s story. The attending press listen attentively too. “There’s integrity in every child’s illness. The challenge is to respond accordingly and gently, and to realize that both child and parents are terrified.” Having unloaded that burden, my backpack seems considerably lighter and it’s time to go. There is no need for us ever to come back here again. May the peace in the hospital’s name and the peace of the surrounding hills console and hopefully heal all those who pass by. The camera crew films my departure as we walk slowly downhill. Nathaniel is urging me to move faster as I turn the last page of chapter 1.

The Road to Emmaus

I am walking on the Road to Emmaus today, so it makes good sense for me to have this gospel story on my mind. In my story, unlike the original, JC does not apparate before me on the path and he does not ask to walk with me for a short while. At the end there is no breaking and sharing of my sandwich bread (leftovers from Colette’s pique-nique yesterday), a communion to help me wake up and see more clearly. I love this bible story because it’s all about our connecting with each other, and when we do, we see more deeply and recognize that which was unrecognizable before. The English word “recognize” comes from the Latin prefix, re- (again) and the Latin verb, cognosco (to know)…therefore, “to know again.” To recognize suggests that I once knew something, somehow forgot, and then I get to know again, but this time at a much deeper level. So what do I recognize or re-know today? I recognize that if I look really hard, I can see Nathaniel walking in front of me. I see he’s marching purposefully, wearing his Quebecois cousin Justin’s boots and holding his small walking stick. If I look even harder, I recognize that his spirit is completely whole and intact, unmarred by the cruelties of BDD and OCD. I also see that there is an unmistakable urgency in his stride as he moves forward. He keeps turning around, urging me to follow more quickly (he’s not big on rest stops). If I get distracted, he ends up way in front of me and I have to scurry to catch up. I also recognize that Nathaniel is taking his leadership job for this pilgrimage quite seriously. Finally I get to know once again that all I really have to do is to keep pace and let him show me the way.